


Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now

by Umbrella_ella



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, danceinstructor!rey, poet!ben, stupid idiots in love, the gym au that zero of you asked for, they're so dumb you guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:22:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22474060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: Rey Kenobi is a dance instructor at a seedy gym on the wrong side of town and Ben Solo has a crush."The flyer is a little crumpled, but he tries not to smear pizza grease on the edge-- somehow that seems like an affront to the eagerness with which the woman had given it to him-- as he pins it to the fridge.At the bottom, small, neat font reads: Interested? Call Rey!"
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Brought to you by Starship and Feelings That I Apparently Have Now, here's a DanceInstructor!Rey/StrugglingPoet!Ben AU. Prepare for the sappiness.

Ben Solo is not a creep, no matter how many odd looks he may get from people.

At least, that's what he tells himself when the press of stares is too much to bear. He catches himself staring through the glass more than once, though, and briefly wonders if the assumptions of others are correct. With a twist in his abdomen, he looks away, instead fiddling with the treadmill controls until he feels the ache in his calves, just an edge over comfortable, and he relishes the pain. He closes his eyes, the _thumpthumpthump_ of his heart stamping out a rapid beat, and his muscles strain to keep time. His breath comes sharp and uneven, pressing sharp pricks of pain against his chest, the bands of muscle expanding and contracting with even shaky exhale. Today had been difficult to say the least, and regret fills him as he thinks of the blinking cursor that had haunted him for the majority of the day before Ben stabbed at the power button, viciously sending his empty document into darkness. The frustration winds around him, tugging at his heart, and he swallows as he slams the stop button and the whir of the treadmill ceases.

The only sound now is the occasional metallic thunk of weights lifting, settling and lifting once more, the buzzing of ancient treadmills held together by duct tape (which may or may not be illegal, but Ben doesn't actually care, his apartment is only a block away and the membership is cheap), and the muffled thump of music that swells and shrinks against the open-concept panes of glass that separate the main gym from the classes.

Often, Ben has seen yoga classes filtering in and out at various points during the day, led by a small woman with glasses bigger than her face and a frown that furrowed deep into her skin (absently, Ben wonders whether or not yoga really helps people relax, because it is not working for that lady), but today, the rythmic thump of music fills the routine quiet of the gym. The class fumbles through the learned moves, hips shifting and legs moving just half a beat behind, and Ben might laugh if it weren't for the teacher.

The woman moves with ease, keeping perfect time, and Ben finds himself watching her once more, his towel draped around his neck, and really, he shouldn't, but he's never been one for _shoulds_ and _shouldn'ts_ and this woman is _beautiful_ , her hair loosely held back in three buns, sweat tracing a path down her temple, umber wisps sticking there stubbornly. Her cheeks are flushed and Ben looks away because he almost feels odd, feels like seeing this woman is too intimate, and it's a strange thought, so Ben abandons it to the recesses of his mind. He blames the absurdity of his jumbled mind on the snarling vein of hunger that invades him suddenly.

Hastily, he packs up his water bottle and towel in the small duffle he stuffed in the corner behind some tumble mats he's sure haven't been used since at least the early 1990's, and slings it over his shoulder. Ben's palm sinks into the foam of the top mat as he balances against the teetering pile, his foot held in the other hand. The ache in his calf loosens a fraction, and he'll probably need to ice it tonight, but he can get home just fine. He rakes his hand through his ruffled, sweat-slicked dark hair, and a spare lock of hair clings to the back of his neck.

His stomach rumbles and briefly, he considers just walking the few blocks to the restaurant his mother and father are currently at-- he'd seen the update on Instagram-- but political machinations were never his strong suit, and he loathed the flash of cameras and the ever insulting "news" splashed across the tabloids.

He imagines the headlines tomorrow.

_Leia Solo, accompanied by husband Han and son Ben, dines on Waldorf salad. Reports say that Senator Solo is once again disappointed in failure poet son._

Ben nearly laughs aloud at that, the bark of amusement caught in his throat.

Pizza it is.

His thoughts are jarred by the creak of the hinged door that releases a gaggle of women, and he sighs, hefting his duffle once more before turning away from the incoming tide of leggings and tinny laughter. His phone opens with the swipe of a thumb, and an old photo of his family around the Christmas tree stares up at him before he thumbs through the contacts, finger almost pressing to the "call" button, and starts at the voice that cuts through his train of thought.

The dancer is standing there, and Ben swallows, watching as she folds her arms over her stomach, the lean muscles tensing with the movement, and she shifts, letting her weight rest on her left foot, and it's a dare, almost, a challenge, and he knows this because he is Leia Solo's son and if ever there were a more stubborn woman, he'd have met her before now.

He is apparently wrong.

"What were you doing?"

Maybe she knows he's been watching her, but her leggings cling to her hips as she shifts again, as though bound by an unheard melody that keeps her moving constantly, and her eyes are wide and hazel and she's _gorgeous_ and--

"Ordering pizza," he says. He immediately regrets it, because he's certainly not stupid and he knows what she means, but she's flushed and pink and wonderful, and he swallows, trying again. His heart thunders out an odd beat, quick and galloping.

"I'm sorry I was watching your class, I just--" Ben stops before he says something foolish-- I just thought you were so captivating that I couldn't look away comes to mind, so he says the next best thing instead.

"How do I sign up?"

 _Shit_.

A brief conversation later, a flyer stuffed into his duffle bag, and a humming sense of dread later, Ben says goodbye to the instructor and flees into the night.

It's hours later that he thinks of it all again, and then it's all he can think of.

The flyer is a little crumpled, but he tries not to smear pizza grease on the edge-- somehow that seems like an affront to the eagerness with which the woman had given it to him-- as he pins it to the fridge.

At the bottom, small, neat font reads _Interested? Call Rey!_

And he _is_ interested, if only to feel that frission of heat lance through him and that thundering rush of life once more, and it's probably terribly immoral and awful, but in speaking with Rey -- _Rey, Rey_ , he repeats her name in his head, and it suits her, he thinks, all sunshine and eager joy as she'd pressed the flyer into his palm-- he'd felt the first spark of passing happiness he's had in far too long. name

The only problem with his ingenious and impromptu plan is that Benjamin Lucas Solo cannot, and never could, dance.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
